Monday, 30 August 2010

Gutted, It's Over.

And that’s that. Another Edinburgh Fringe over. Goodbye to the 24 hour drinking, the 20 year old comedians who have been lucky and ungracious, the fucking jugglers, the pigging bagpipes, the lack of food, the flyerers who have as much interest in the show they’re promoting as I do, the theatre groups who find no shame in rehearsing in public, Joe Power, the tiny sweaty rooms where the comedian on stage can clearly see you hate him, the lying, the lack of any publicity for Gutted, Alan fucking Cumming singing IN PUBLIC, the doing the same fucking thing every day over and over and over again, the constantly seeing posters of Craig Hill, the people who say “I don’t know why you’re not more successful” and me remembering that I’m not more successful, the Vocalzone, the children who review comedy for a sheet of paper that is handed out in goth pubs, the fear that I’ve fucked up yet another show, the people who ask me for a more successful actor’s autograph, the having to prove that you have the right to drink in the pathetically named Star Bar, the lack of wi-fi, the lack of phone signal, the waking up at 2 in the afternoon with a thick tongue and a shamed mind, the you-should-have-been-there stories of comedians who should know better doing one-off shows up Arthur’s Seat at 4am, Arthur’s Seat, comedians, 4am. It’s all fucking over.

But so is the most enjoyable Edinburgh Fringe I’ve ever had. I just loved it this year and all those horrible things just couldn’t spoil it. For every Edinburgh NO, and there were plenty, there was a massive YES! I doubt anything as incredible as being rescued by Hunter from Gladiators will ever happen to me again. And the joy I had in my heart when Joe Power, the psychic that talks to the dead, asked his audience “Does anyone here know a Dave?” was overwhelming. Every show I did I enjoyed. Even the one stand-up gig where I died was enjoyable because the audience were totally cool about it. The one Gutted where everything that could possibly go wrong did go wrong (as opposed to the others where just lots of things went wrong) was good because the people I was with are great. We all went down in flames together and we totally learned from it.

Pointless Anger, Righteous Ire is a great show and I’m very proud of it. I’m grateful to Robin Ince for letting me hang on to his apron strings (although I did provide the apron in the show). The shows were full every day without any posters or flyers or publicity. That may have something to do with Robin’s fame rather than mine. We’ll never really know. I do know that we’ll do more Pointless Anger shows and if we get anything near the fun and appreciative audiences we’ve had so far, it’ll be great. No doubt I’ll do something to fuck it up. In fact, I’m generally so happy these days that that means I’ve fucked it up already. God, I’m a cunt.

Gutted was just so much fun that I actually feel that it can’t be over. It would be cruel to us all not to do that again. So what if there were sound difficulties nearly every night? So what if I kept falling off the moving stage in the early shows? So what if I can’t actually sing or act? It’s a fucking laugh. Isn’t that enough? The “final” Gutted last night was pretty much what I expected. The fucking about was pushed so much that the lead character of Sorrow was pissing herself laughing at her boyfriend choking to death. Yes, you could look at it as self-indulgent twattery but only because that’s what it was. I liked it. I loved the show and Danielle Ward and Martin White should be very happy with what they’ve written. I know lots of people who are because I’ve heard “Mrs. Station, have you seen my biscuits?” being quoted by complete strangers for over a week. I think I’m going to miss hanging out with the cast a lot. I don’t hate any of them. IMAGINE THAT! Thanks very much to Danielle and Martin, I’m really grateful and it was a blast.

Packing up my things today and preparing to leave I had to pause and reflect about how sad I felt that it was all over. Still, at least I don’t have to carry a 7ft squirting vagina back to London. I find great solace in that.

But I’m on the crowded train full of Fringe performers going back to London now and my anger is all starting to return. Cunts sitting in groups either singing or crying and hugging one another, luggage fucking everywhere but the luggage hold I put my case into was empty and there are people asleep in front of the toilet door. I’ve just paid £1.80 for a coke that they thoughtfully boiled for me. Plus, I didn’t have a reservation so I’ve had to spend more money upgrading to first class so that I can get a seat as standard class is full. WHY DID YOU FUCKING SELL ME A TICKET IF THERE ARE NO SEATS?

And now Muki has spilled coffee all over her lap so I must go and help her. It won’t be easy. I am laughing quite hard.

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